


Aristostuck

by volatileintrovert



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (kinda), Abuse, Aristocracy, M/M, Servants, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 03:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volatileintrovert/pseuds/volatileintrovert
Summary: Alternians have finally conquered the elusive planet of Earth. Humans and their lack of technology were no match for the trolls, and were quickly defeated. The empire decimates and enslaves the humans, and uses the planet for its abundant natural resources. Highbloods begin to populate the Earth, and absorb human customs by using English terminology, dressing in their attire, using their technology, and embodying aristocrats and nobles.It's some weird shit yo





	Aristostuck

**Author's Note:**

> hi! its my first fic! super awful!!! :)
> 
> i thought of this after looking into aristocratic lolita and ouji fashion and being like...hm....homestuck?....davekat? au???
> 
> sorry if the parts about lowbloods being servants sounds creepy, cause its kinda supposed to!! highbloods in this fic kinda suck >:( i hope i dont sound like im glorifying like...slavery and stuff cause yikes!!! bad!!
> 
> anyways i hope you enjoy this crackhead shit i wrote! please give me feedback or straight up make fun of me because this is just not Good! anyways ya :) stay fresh

“And I don’t want to hear a word out of place from you, understood?”

“Yes,” I nod, eyes cast downward to the floor. “You are understood, my Lord.” 

The dreadful seriousness weighing his features down instantly evaporates, leaving behind the alluring, benevolent softness of a smile on his cheeks. “Oh, come now, you know how much I detest the formality. I am no more your Lord than you are my Lusus.” He straightens his posture, no longer looming his lanky frame over my more stout physique. 

“I do mean what I say, however. I do not want to disappoint our dear, dear guests, and I especially do not want to be disappointed in you.”

“Right. Of course, my L--Gamzee.” He catches my sutter, his lips drawing into a cat-like grin.

“See? You should know by now how much better that sounds.” 

~~~

I align myself in the reflection, making sure my attire is presentable, though I don’t linger in the mirror for longer than necessary. The house has already been tidied--the parlour dusted, the dining room properly cleaned, and the ballroom floors polished, sparkling just so that it resembled a mirror in the light. Not that I particularly want it to, by any means. Basking in one’s own image was desirable only to those who were bearable to be seen by the general public. Highbloods, exactly. Those of my condition were shunned by the world, and as a result a deep hatred for narcissism was engraved in our very nature.

Nevertheless, a burnished dance floor was adored and expected by those on top of the ladder, per se, such as our guests tonight. It was imperative that the couple Gamzee and I were expecting, wealthy planters who oversaw a prosperous farm in South America, were adequately entertained this evening. 

I make sure to pat my face with my handkerchief, damp with sweat from my prior activities. I am supposed to do all the work, not look like I do it all. 

“Darling, our guests have arrived! Go and greet them, would you? I’m still adjusting my tie.”

I answer back positively, and as I make my way downstairs, I hear a faint, but deliberate call:

“Oh, and do be sure remember what we discussed.” 

I do not reply. I instead quicken my ascent down the stairs and make my way to the front entrance. Outside it is a rainy night, with a storm approaching fast. When I open the doors, I am met with two decadent, posh Ceruleans, their gold-embellished adornments slick and weighted with rain. I forcefully upturn the corners of my mouth and move out of the doorway with a slight bow. 

“Good evening. A warm welcome into our estate. Please, come in from all this rain.” The couple hastily make their way inside, the female troll putting down her useless, lace parasol that had become completely drenched.

“Such dreadful weather! We change this planet for the better, and this is how it repays us!” The woman scoffs. “Earth! What a miserable rock.” 

“Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll return with some towels. Apologies for Lord Makara’s absence, I assure you he will join us shortly.”

Whilst the highbloods mutter amongst themselves, I bow again and make my way from the parlor into the utility room downstairs, in the cellar. Greeted with the stench of cleaning supplies and must, I retrieve only our softest towels for the dripping guests. Lords know that if the cloth was too stiff surely they would throw a fit. From the corners of my vision, I spy the wine rack, filled almost completely with aging ales. Most of them were gifts from Gamzee’s friends in the Carnival. When they weren’t plotting their next performance, they were drinking themselves near to death. Highbloods seemed to enjoy wasting themselves away with drink; besides commanding lower blood around, it was really the only other enjoyable activity for them. Luxurious parties and lavish lifestyles could only fill so much of the empty, yawning void in all of our souls. Personally, booze does nothing for me--I detest the floaty feeling it gives you, as if you are disconnected from the rest of the world. Perhaps such a feeling is already far too close to my reality for me to appreciate alcohol. 

By the time I return to the parlor, Gamzee had already made his way down the stairs and begun to converse with our guests. I hand them their towels, which they take without even a glance, and take my place beside Gamzee. Silently, I observe their conversation, which consists of friendly, meaningless banter. The dreadful weather, recent royal news, the ornate decor of our home...

“Well, now that you two are rather dry, allow me to show you to the dining room. I hope you two are hungry--my dear here has prepared a divine meal for us tonight. Please, after me.” Gamzee interjects in his ever polite drawl, leading the two into the hall. I follow behind them, watching as the still wet heels of the woman’s shoes leave a trail of shiny footprints on the floor.

~~~

“Mm, if there’s one thing you lowbloods are good for, it’s cooking.” 

“It wasn’t bad, I suppose.” The woman patted her face with a napkin, folding it nicely on top of her plate--in an attempt to cover her hardly-eaten food. She didn’t do a very good job.

“I thought it was divine,” The male troll smiled. He didn’t speak much, and I suspected it was because the stubborn woman expressed her distaste for his positivity often.

The rain was beginning to pick up outside. Pitter, pattering against the windows made for ambient background noise. 

“We are so pleased you’ve enjoyed your dinners. But now, I suppose it is time to discuss business. Azrith, I believe you had an offer to make?”

The male troll perked up and quickly swallowed the food in his mouth. Coughing a little, he managed, “Yes, yes, yes, indeed I do.” He cleared his throat. 

“I recently attended one of your, er, shows. I must admit I was a little...unsure of what to expect. You see, I dearly respect your blood’s traditions--The Carnival has always intrigued me, but it was never really my scene, you see. However, however! As I sat through the marvellous performances, I was simply flabbergasted with how much raw talent goes into your work! Such riveting, lively energy. Divine, truly.” He pauses to sip his wine.

“I know you and your caravan are looking for some external funding. I know--oh, trust me, I know!--how hard it is to keep your own business above water. A reliable sponsor is crucial to the survival of a trade such as yours and mine. Owning a plantation is rather similar to owning an act, honestly; You make sure everyone does their jobs, like little cogs in a clock, and when you achieve harmony, magic is made for the rest of society to benefit from! 

“Thus, I hope you are charmed to hear that Yerlin and I would be honored to be backers of your Carnival!” 

Gamzee’s eyes light up, but his face remains in that languid, permanent smirk. “Oh, wonderful! That really butters my yeastloaf!” Azrith laughs at his joke, and Yerlin seems characteristically unimpressed. 

“Yes, I accompanied my darling to your show, and it was very...interesting indeed. Your lower staff seems to need some work, however.” Yerlin speaks up.

Cocking his head, Gamzee halted, waiting for her to continue. Thunder began to bellow.

“Well, for starters, before the show, I witnessed a Jade sitting in front of us, and as our accompaniment--a Bronze--led us to our seats, they did not even question if we would like to inherit their spot. Secondly, while I felt overwhelming emotion from the Purple actors on stage, the lower performers seemed to have less of an aura about them. They made me nearly miserable just witnessing them.”

I noticed my jaw clenching. I had seen Gamzee and his crew’s shows on more than one occasion, and I knew what happened when the curtains were drawn. The relentless rehearsals, the severe punishments, the lack of proper sustenance. This cur had the gall to complain about the tiredness of the undernourished performers because they didn’t fill her with ‘overwhelming emotion’? What emotion did the clowns fill her with, anyway? All they do is slink about onstage, twisting and constricting in a painful seeming manner with one another, praising some “messiah” above. 

“You know, those lowbloods have it so easy. All their life they’re herded like...Like woolbeasts and told exactly what to do, and they still seem so uneager to do it. Life is so easy. Everything is planned out for them; down to what they eat everyday. And oh, how they complain! Nag, nag, nag. And the ones who are lucky enough to live with a high companion, well, they should appreciate how truly good they have it. Taking everything for granted, those lowbloods do. 

“Yet--and yet!--they don’t offer better seats to two Ceruleans. They have the nerve to dull the energy of their superiors’ acts in the Circus. They are just too stupid to understand the value of their simple, little lives.”

“You’re wrong!”

Lightning strikes. Soon, a silence cascades over the dining table for a moment. Everyone’s eyes shift about the room, all in wonder of where the retort came from, though we all knew who it was. 

My knuckles are white, strained from the vice grip on my knife. I release my hand, and notice the utensil still standing upright, as the blade was lodged within the table.

Sitting back down from where I had shot up in my seat, I cough. My face is burning red, yet cold with fear simultaneously. 

“...What I meant was, um...I-I…” I stutter, “The lowbloods are wrong. Us lowbloods should not complain so freely about the effortless lives we are granted.” 

More silence. The resting unamusement on Yerlin’s face was replaced with that of shock. Why that fact alone shook me deeply, I haven’t a clue. Knowing my act was able to render her aghast was likely not a good sign.

“...Mm. Karkat. Why don’t you fetch us another bottle of wine in celebration of our newfound partnership? I think spirits would liven this evening right up.” Only I could have sensed the hint of tension in his mostly composed tone. With a nod and a hasty bow, I scuffle back down into the cellar.

I could hear a pin drop during my journey downstairs. The entire manor became still. Even the rain seemed to be silenced, if only in my mind. I slip into the dark stairwell, closing the large wooden door behind me softly, afraid of making any more of a nuisance of myself.

...But why should speaking up make myself a “nuisance”? They sure do it all the goddamn time. If someone like me even walked a bit queer, an Indigo would gripe about it. Thoughts race in my mind as I return to the dank basement. I am faced with the wine rack, hardly able to think about which year to select with all the anger seething through my veins. Wouldn’t want to pick a poorly aged wine, now would I? No, that would be unsatisfactory for poor Yerlin. Something so easy for me to do would sorely inconvenience her. Poor woman. 

With reckless abandon, I swipe a bottle off the rack, hearing one fall to the floor with a satisfying CRACK. No longer in control of my fury, I storm back upstairs, swing open the wooden door and hearing it BANG shut behind me. Composing myself just enough to appear normal to the others, I return to the dining room. I plaster a large smile on my face, showing my dulled fangs on full display. 

“Yerlin, would you care for another glass?” 

“Hm. I suppose.” She offers me her goblet, pointedly looking in another direction.

I stand behind her, uncorking the bottle and pouring a large helping of wine into her cup. She tells me to stop, noticing how far I’ve been filling it, forcing her to acknowledge me. I linger for a moment, watching as she sips the drink, and hear her tsk in disapproval. 

“Couldn’t even pick a good wine.” She mutters. 

“Sincerest apologies... My beloved guest...” I sing.

I raise the bottle slowly, inch by inch, until it is just above my head. Some red spills down my arm, and onto the floor. Yerlin doesn’t notice. Azrith avoids my presence altogether. Only Gamzee seems to have taken any notice. 

I swing.

~~~


End file.
